The Lost Boys
by FleurDespoir
Summary: (Short story before the Apocalypse) Daryl and Merle find a young boy on their doorstep, and the pair embark on a mission to find the mother


**Summary: (Set before the Apocalypse) Daryl finds a young boy handcuffed to his doorstep, which turns out to be his son. The Dixon brothers set out to try and find the boy's mother, as he and Merle finally adapt to some real responsibility. Rated T for adult themes. **

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**The Lost Boys**

**Chapter One**

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It was past midnight when Daryl Dixon first heard it; a faint wailing and metallic clinking drifting through the threadbare curtains shielding his open window. He opened an eye, and saw only the buzzing silhouettes of mosquitos and other savoury creatures. Thinking it must be one of the neighbours having a domestic, he closed his eyes, but heard the sound again. It was coming from the porch.

"Fuck's sake," he muttered, sitting up to grab his jeans from beneath a pile of pizza boxes. They clattered to the floor, accompanying the many cigarette butts squashed into the carpet. Daryl cast a surly eye over the mess, and opened the bedroom door. In his haste, he forgot about the smashed liquor bottles Merle had thrown in a drunken rage the day before, and he promptly sank his foot into a jagged spike.

"JESUS CHRIST!" he yelled, grabbing his foot with one hand, the other groping for the light switch. The entire caravan became bathed in a dim orangey glow, throwing it's rundown interior into sharper relief. Everything was covered in a fine layer of grease, shining dimly in the lamplight; the ceiling was yellowed through years of smoking, and the faded wallpaper hung sadly from the walls. Flies buzzed around dried up food left discarded on the cheap, wooden kitchen units, and around a dark mass lying on the stained sofa. Merle.

Daryl carefully meandered through the garbage, and poked his brother sharply in the back. They had one bed in the trailer, and for years Merle occupied the sofa due to it being a good place to collapse after a drunken night out, but if he came back with a chick, the bedroom was all his. Merle stirred, peering groggily up at Daryl.

"The fuck is wrong with you baby brother?" he muttered, rubbing his eyes to adjust to the light. "This had better be good."

"There's a weird noise outside the porch."

"Probably a coyote ..."

"No it ain't … sounds like someone cryin'"

Merle growled impatiently. "The fuck do I care?! Probably Jimmy and that whore of his arguin' again. Now leave me the fuck alone."

He rolled over, leaving Daryl to stare at his defiant back. Shaking his head, he reached for his crossbow on the table; he nursed a deep hatred for the creatures, having being savaged by one when he was five. His left testicle had never been the same.

Swiftly loading a bolt, Daryl kicked open the front door and scanned the perimeter for any sign of disturbance, but all he saw were a few fat moths flapping around the porch-light. A light switched on in next door's trailer, and Daryl saw the stocky silhouette of Jimmy taking a piss as his wife yelled intangible insults. He was about to head back inside, when something made him look below the porch.

"What the -?" He switched on his flashlight, and a small boy was illuminated. Daryl's first thought the little shit was trying to break entry, until he noticed the handcuffs digging into the boy's tiny wrists.

"Who the fuck are you?" he demanded, striding over. The boy shrunk away at the sight of him, staring at his crossbow from beneath a mop of blonde curls. "Well?"

Without warning the boy began to cry, making Daryl feel incredibly awkward. "Hey, I ain't gunna hurt you kid," he muttered, putting his crossbow on the ground. "Why the hell are you handcuffed to our trailer?"

The boy continued to cry, and Daryl realised it was because of the tightness of the handcuffs; blood was dripping down the boy's skinny arms. "Hold on, I get you out of these." Daryl was quite nifty with picking locks, and always carried around spare tools to do the job. Within seconds the handcuffs flicked open and the boy sank to his knees in pain. Daryl stared at him.

"Who are you kid? You one of Stella's boys?"

Stella McLaren was a local celebrity in the trailer park for having fifteen kids, from ten different father's (Merle supposedly one of them), but Daryl doubted even she would have been this heartless to one of her own. The fuck was going on?

The boy shook his head, and shakily gave Daryl a note from his pocket. He squinted at the scrawled handwriting and read silently.

_Dixon, _

_Six years ago we had some fun, and like most men I never expected you to stick around. However, I am now incarcerated, and due to lack of child support over the past six years, he's your problem now. _

_This is your son. _

_Brandine. _

Daryl had the horrible feeling the word was sinking beneath him. He reread the letter again to try and make sense, but his mind had gone numb. "This is your son." He glanced at the boy at those words and drank up his appearance; he was a little underweight but there was no denying those blue eyes.

"Have you read this?" he asked the boy. He shook his head. "Apparently, I'm your father, and your mother …"

A shudder ran through his body at the thought. Brandine had been a prostitute he'd hooked up when he went on one of Merle's business trips. All he remembered that night was a countless flow of bourbon, crystal meth and joyriding. The next day he was handcuffed naked to a toilet in his motel room, robbed of cash and infected with the clap. He swore if he ever saw Brandine again, he would give that bitch what was coming to her but now the woman had dumped _her kid _on _his _doorstep. What the fuck was she playing at?

"Look … I – erm … just come inside, kid … I need to gather my thoughts," Daryl muttered, gently escorting the boy inside the trailer. Luckily the kid obliged, and quietly followed Daryl and sat down on one of the plastic chairs at the table. He stared fearfully over at Merle who was muttering death-threats in his sleep.

"Wake up ass-hole," Daryl yelled, soaking a filthy tea-towel and dumping it on Merle's face. The older Dixon screamed, and fell clumsily to the floor.

"I'm gonna fuckin' rip your head – the hell is this?" Merle's anger quickly faded at the sight of the boy sitting at the table.

Daryl poured himself a glass of twenty-year old scotch before answering. "Read this." He brandished the note under Merle's nose, who read it. His frown became more pronounced with each line.

"So he ain't mine," Merle crowed, casting the note aside. "Pour me one will ya, Darylena. At least I don't have to worry about some crazy hooker bitches dumping their baggage on my doostep"

Daryl frowned darkly at his brother's words and knocked back the scotch. It burned his throat, but he welcomed the sensation.

"Fuck me, he even looks like you when you were … I dunno … maybe six. How old are you boy?"

"He ain't much of a talker."

Merle got up and sat beside the boy who recoiled slightly at his smell. "Hey, I'm your uncle Merle and I asked you a question, boy."

Daryl watched the exchange closely, ready to step in if Merle crossed the line. There was no denying the boy was his. Personally, he didn't really mind the boy being here; it was Brandine's actions which angered him the most.

"S-Six and a half, ass-hole."

For a split-second, Merle looked stunned and Daryl burst out laughing at the kid's words. Obviously, the kid was just repeating what he'd said to Merle earlier when they entered the trailer, but Merle would be less understanding. He was right. The older Dixon's face went red, and Daryl swiftly placed a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Leave it be, he's a kid. He picks up stuff."

"He ought to be taught some manners," growled Merle, glaring at the boy who looked thoroughly scared at his uncle's reaction. Daryl sat down next to him.

"So you gotta name?"

For the first time, the boy looked at him with a glimmer of trust. He shrugged. "Just 'boy' and 'it' … but Mommy named me after her favourite drink … Jack."

"Jack Daniels?"

"Yeah."

"Well that's real original," sighed Daryl, running a hand through his hair. His brain was hurting with all the new information, and he longed to go on a long hunt to clear his head. "I guess you ain't got nowhere else to go, Jack. You can stay here tonight and tomorrow I can figure out what the hell to do with you – I mean the situation."

"Well it's a no brainer!" snarled Merle, "we track down that rancid whore and give the boy back. I ain't want no kid around here … especially with my business."

Daryl could now feel his temple throbbing horribly against his skull. "You operate your meth business out of town, Merle -"

He was cut off by Jack tugging desperately on Daryl's sleeve, tears rolling down his eyes. "Please don't send me back to Mommy! Please don't! I'll be good! I can be a good boy!"

It was a heartbreaking sight, and even Merle stopped ranting to clap Jack on the back to comfort him. What the hell did Brandine do to make the kid hate her so much? Daryl was about to ask this question when he felt something damp on his lap; Jack was so traumatised at the thought of his mother he had wet himself. Merle swore and stood up, yelling obscenities about Jack being a pussy but Daryl merely carried the boy over to the bathroom to clean him up.

"Shut the fuck up Merle! Leave him be!" Daryl hollered, as he unwittingly carried out his first act of parenthood. Maybe it was because he'd been so terrified of his father at Jack's age, he instinctively knew how the kid felt.

"You can calm down now," he quipped as Jack stood trembling inf ront of him. "I'm gonna need you to take off your pants so I can wash them in the sink."

"No!" yelled Jack angrily. "Don't come fuckin' near me!"

He sighed. Great. A tantrum. His first reaction was to yell back at the little shit, but this was obviously an embarrassing situation for the boy and he was just a stranger. Reluctantly, he left the bathroom and waited for Jack to take off his pants. He knew he had some old pyjamas left over in an old trunk under the bed he could wear.

"You done yet?"

There was a murmer of assent behind the dilapidated door, and Daryl entered the bathroom. Jack was standing next to the sink, already soaking his pants in muddy water. He watched him for a moment, wondering how independent the boy must be. Brandine would never have been an ideal mother, and the little fucker probably had to fend for himself. No wonder he was so malnourished.

After Jack managed to let Daryl pat him down with a towel, he dug out his old pyjamas and gave them to Jack who eyed them in shock. "These are for me?"

"No they're for Merle," Daryl replied dryly, as Jack put them on enthusiastically. "They might be a little big for ya, but they're gonna have to do for tonight."

After binning a few pornographic posters, picking up a few cigarette butts beneath the blanket and finding a less stained pillow, Daryl let Jack sleep in the bedroom, as he found the most comfortable bit of threadbare carpet. At least then he could keep a vigil on the bedroom door if Jack ventured outside. Tiredness was overwhelming him, and he knew all he could do was wait for tomorrow and deal with the situation then.

Parenthood. It wasn't easy.


End file.
